“How do you know he used the poison? Could it be that it had other uses besides this?”

The sheriff gravely shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Morrom has only one purpose. It’s just not used often in murders because it leaves purple bruise-like marks on the face of the victim. Mrs. Mispy had those marks and the only thing that conceals them for some reason or another is water. Which is why I suppose he went to fetch water nearly everyday. There’s not much of a doubt who did it. The real question is why. But until we get it out of him, I’m afraid it’s nothing but conspiracy to try to think of such a reason. My deputy is stationed back at his house and is ready to arrest him. He’s probably already in cuffs now.”

Everyone started asking question after question, not ready to believe that this man they knew and loved would be cruel enough to murder his own wife. The couple seemed so dear to each other and everyone else in the village. What could have possessed Mr. Mispy to commit such a despicable act? Everyone wanted to know, but I, who was very fond of Mrs. Mispy, was still traumatized by her death and the world became a blur to me in my grief. I remember no more questions from that day. In truth, I can scarcely remember the latter half of that day at all. The only vivid remembrance I had was the solemn, confused and thoughtful silent sorrow that plagued my house that night and the curious detail that Mr. Mispy was reported to not have returned to his house and therefore was still on the loose.

The next day, nothing was different. It was like a dark cloud hung over Brochtenshire. One that you could feel and sent chills down your spine as it whispered its message of certain misfortune to come in the piercing breeze. The air was heavy and it looked as if it would rain. No children were playing in the fields because tears would be shed on seeing the bridge. So I walked alone over the bridge, unafraid because of sorrow, and leaned against an apple tree in the grass field. I closed my eyes and thought of the Mispys and of all the fond memories I had with them. The warm thoughts of their kindness and their company filled my head and the sweet familiar taste of candied chestnuts teased my tastebuds. Soon, I fell asleep there, overwhelmed with fatigue from the emotions of the past day. It was noon when I went out, but when I awoke, the sun had just set and the moon had begun its ascent. Realizing the hour and slightly panicking, I rushed back to the bridge.

I stopped suddenly, hearing a voice, and crouched down in the grass when I heard the mention of Mr. Mispy’s name.
“Ah, Andrew Mispy… Andrew Mispy… It’s been so long since I’ve been able to call you that.”

A smug voice spoke the words into the night and coming down the path were the figures of two men, one seeming to limp and had his arm around the other.

“You know, Andrew,” The voice continued, “It turns out you’ve helped me prove an old saying. That ‘necessity is the mother of invention’. Indeed, you have.”

The first figure shoved the limping man onto the railing of the bridge with a grunt. The voice was so close now that I swore I recognized it, but could not place it. But the limping man made no sound nor any movement. Then it struck me. He was dead. And he was Mr. Mispy.

“Morrom was too slow. People needed to know what happened to you. I would be blamed for not finding you, you know.” He turned and leaned against the opposite railing. In the pale moonlight, his face shone clearly. The face of the deputy. The face of a murderer clearly pleased with his work.

“I’m not one for killing a man with my own hands… no. But watching you suffer as you were forced to drink the poison I gave you- nothing will ever bring me that satisfaction again. Morrom was a good base. But it needed something to make it process faster. Do you know what it was? Go on, guess! Your face speaks even in death. You do not know. Well, I’ll tell you.” The deputy rose up now and paced the bridge.

“Chestnuts! Would you believe it? Yes, the very ones grown by Maggie in your backyard!” A resounding laugh echoed slightly over the water.

“Your dear Magdalene was the cause of your death. Oh, Andrew, I couldn’t have murdered you plainly, you see. Everyone would search for someone with a grievance, and the fact that Magdalene and I were pledged to be married before you stole her heart would have led them right to me. No, it couldn’t be. And Maggie never could have gone back to me after you, so she couldn’t remain alive. Now, this way, your wife is gone, your happiness has ended, your memory has been tainted, my revenge has been satisfied, and in the morning, when I lead a search party to find you, they will find that you died a coward’s death- by drowning yourself in the river that will forever hide the bruises of the morrom.”

He marched up to Mr. Mispy’s corpse and grabbed him by the collar.

“Ironic, isn’t it? On this very bridge, you were given my girl. You were given joy. Let’s not break the tradition of giving on this bridge. I now give you to the river’s wrath!

The splash that followed still rings in my ears to this day. I could not see him fall, but my mind envisioned such a lucid image that I gasped aloud in fright. The deputy heard the gasp. Drawing his gun and pointing my direction, he demanded to know who was there. Scared beyond words and unable to shake the horror of the moment, I came forward, arms raised.

“You boy… huh. You’re a sly one. No sense lying to me. I know you heard everything. I can’t very well let you blabber it all to everyone with your big mouth. No… unless you want to be known as Mr. Mispy’s final victim-“ he placed a hand on my shoulder and turned my around so I was facing the field, “I would run. Run, boy, and don’t stop running. Don’t ever come back or I will have to murder you too.” He shoved me forwards, and I took off faster than I’d ever run before.

I ran. I ran as far as I could until I collapsed, but this is not my story. Perhaps some other time I will tell of how I survived and eventually found civilization again. I write this now because by running, I condemned an innocent man and left a village in a state of horror. By writing, I may share with them the truth safely.

The town of Brochtenshire is a dismal place. It’s nearly deserted now and stories of it being haunted plague its existence. If you ever visit there, you will notice the bridge no longer exists. A decision of the town law enforcement to hide an old memory that strikes horror in the hearts of all who see it. The field is overgrown with thorns and the people who farm there keep to themselves. I should know. I once lived there.